


Restless

by ArcadiosV (Mariannie)



Series: The Archives [5]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26679013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mariannie/pseuds/ArcadiosV
Summary: A short character study to get into the flow of things.There's barely any time for himself, when all he ever does is being there for others.Shortly after 'Shadow in the Ice'
Series: The Archives [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2063736
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Restless

**Author's Note:**

> Hoi! Uh new here, never written GW fanfics before. 
> 
> Short character study to figure out how everyone works, how they act. etc.
> 
> Using my sylvari here. His name's Verne. 
> 
> Don't know too much about how Sylvari bodies work (yet) and while research didn't bring many insights,  
> I'll make do haha.
> 
> I'll probably write more, there's at least one other thing i want to dive into, but for now,  
> Enjoy this :D

It took everything out of him to not run, everything to disguise his gait as a stroll, to make it look like he was scouting the area.

He only wanted a corner of the world just to himself, just so he could finally let it go, let out all the pent-up emotion, the  _ fear _ that had crawled into his body and refused to dissipate. 

The grove was so far away, sneaking off to it would rouse suspicion, would make people ask. He never went home. Not really… He didn’t  _ trust _ the pale tree anymore.

He had been scared before.

When he faced Balthazar, when the same murdered him in a fight that couldn’t have been more unfair, when aurene sacrificed herself. Kralkatorrik. Fear wasn’t new to him. Fear, remorse, regret, terror. He had felt it all. And while he had made a good show of hiding all of it, he needed an outlet. 

When he was sure he was out of sight, he started running. Paid no mind to the trees, the fauna, the snow. He’d seen enough snow to last a lifetime. The cold was unwelcome, nagging, seeping into his skin and threatening to freeze him alive. 

He needed to get out of the Hall of Monuments. The second he could walk again he had left. His body ached, both physically and with the phantom pain of  _ betrayal _ . Bangar had never been on his side, and still, getting shot by someone what could have been his ally, hurt.

His thick boots caught on something, sent him flying into the powdery snow, making tiny flakes rain down on him. The sudden cold made him gasp. 

He  _ hated _ the cold. That was one thing he was quite sure of. After exploring nearly all of Tyria, the areas it snowed in were his most unwelcome adventures.  _ Shortly after the branded parts of the land. _

And now this. As if Jormag looming over them hadn’t been enough already, the constant whispers in his head that weren’t his own.

He had had his fair share of that with Mordremoth already. Maybe the others finally understood how hard it was to stay focused with a voice nagging like that. He harbored a deep-seated hatred for the jungle dragon. For taking Eir, Trahearne, so many others. 

Slowly he got to his knees, shaking the snow out of his clothes. The light snowfall had picked up again, threatening to steal his vision away. 

He couldn’t bring himself to care. All he needed was a moment to himself, without Aurene — although he was sure she was watching him anyway, without Braham and his childlike look on the world, without Rytlock and his cynical approach to just about everything; Taimi, who he considered one of his best friends, really. All of them were his friends. Family, as Braham had put it. 

More family than the pale tree had ever been to him. It still filled him with revulsion whenever he came back to the grove. Not that he did often. Just something about the tree that put him off.

Which he had briefly considered to be strange, as a Sylvari that’s what he was. A damned tree. But the Jungle Dragon had opened his eyes about a lot of things.

He just needed to be  _ away _ for a while. Alone. Dealing with all the things he just couldn’t talk about.

His gloved hands took fistfuls of snow, squeezing it, scrunching it up. He briefly thought about building a snowman just to tear into it with his sword, but let go of the idea. If anything he’d just spend his energy and freeze to death in this… wherever it was.

He used to have a great sense of direction, but after Maguuma something had changed. He still blamed Mordremoth for it. 

He blamed it for a lot of things.

After all this he had never really allowed himself to recollect his thoughts, grieve and accept. Things had happened back to back, so fast, he couldn’t be anyone but the pact commander. He had to function for the sake of the people who trusted and followed him. He couldn’t let his guard down, be weak. 

But now, in this short moment of unexpected downtime, he needed it. Needed to let it go, calm his raging emotions. So many things were just a blur now, things he couldn’t even keep track of anymore. 

With a growl he stood, kicked a nearby tree so hard he could feel the pain rise up his entire leg. The poor pine shook and all the snow on its branches fell down on him, into the cracks of his thick coat, making him shiver. 

He clenched his fists, snarled. There was nothing but snow and trees for as far as he could see, a plain and even area. He took a deep breath, and just screamed into the emptiness. Cursed and cussed, just letting go of his anger, his frustration, until his voice cracked and an entirely different feeling threatened to consume him.

_ Sorrow. _

He felt the cold stinging in his eyes before he had even noticed the tears, blinking against the painful sensation he turned to walk back. 

The storm had picked up significantly now, and while he could still make out the outlines of the hall, he wasn’t sure for how much longer he could. It was getting dark now too. 

Rytlock was walking up to him when he got closer. The Charr almost looked as if he was taking a stroll, but the way he gazed around the area told him that the Tribune had been looking for him.

“Verne.” Rytlock almost yelled into the wind when he saw the small and somewhat frail looking sylvari walking up towards him. 

At least in situations like this they wouldn’t lose sight of him. Easily detected, wearing black in the white snow, otherwise his pale ashen color may have blended into it. He missed wearing the more colorful garments, but the logic was simple. Black attracted warmth, and provided contrast. 

Slowly he made his way towards the charr, making an effort not to trip.

It was strange to be addressed by his name. He wasn’t even sure if anyone these days remembered it. He was just “The Commander” to everyone. 

He didn’t even remember when he had told Rytlock his real name.

The charr was holding something that looked like a coat made of thick fur, draped it over his shoulders without hesitating. “Damn cold gets  _ everywhere _ .” Rytlock growled. “Can’t tell if that’s just me or if that cursed dragon did something to it”.

Verne scoffed with a smirk as he pulled the fur close around him. It didn’t generate much warmth, since he had been too cold, but it blocked out the wind. “Thank you.”

“Heard ya yelling out there.” Rytlock continued. “Glad you didn't get attacked.”

Verne sighed, following the charr now. “Please don’t mention this to the others. I needed a moment to myself.”

“Can’t blame ya. Cre’s been asking about you.”

He blinked. “Me? Why?”

“Checking on you, I guess.” Rytlock shrugged. “You gave us all quite the scare.”

Verne froze, stopped in his tracks. Being shot with Braham’s bow was not a memory he wanted to think about now. Still, it wormed itself into his thoughts, absentmindedly making him touch the spot still aching from the arrow. 

His face hardened when Rytlock looked back at him. He couldn’t move. 

“Commander?” The charr tilted his head a bit, a frown making its way to his face. “Are you alright?”

He forced himself to move, one trembling step after the other. He lived through worse things… and yet… 

“You’re shaking.” Rytlock’s voice sounded distant, then ebbed away, and when the spots in his vision couldn’t be explained with snow anymore, Verne realized that he was going to faint. 

Too late to really warn Rytlock he only clumsily reached out to the charr and was immediately caught. He didn’t pass out, but the cotton in his head and the weakness in his limbs made him wish that he did. 

Crecia was talking to him- when had she gotten here? He could see her face, but the dizziness made it hard to focus. 

“Commander.” her voice was firm, one of her pranks could easily crush him with how big they were compared to him, it was odd that that was the only thing he could think of.

_ Don’t hurt me… _

It replayed in his head over and over again. 

The fog on his mind cleared slowly after Crecia forced him to drink some water and have something to eat. Apparently she wasn’t aware that this could happen to sylvari. And frankly, he hadn’t been until now, either.

What he did know was that Rytlock and Crecia didn’t leave him out of their sight now. Always glancing over to him whenever they thought he wouldn’t notice.

_ Good luck trying to trick a Mesmer _ , he thought.

When Braham returned to the hal,l it was almost a relief. Until Verne noticed the tight expression on the Norn’s face. He had been sitting on a dining table for a while, for lack of a better place to sit than the floor, legs dangling over the edge, hands toying with an apple Crecia had left for him.

No, Braham did not look happy. He looked as if he would fall to his knees begging for forgiveness at any second.

Usually Verne would have stood, told him it was fine and moved on, but those were hardly normal circumstances. Nor was any of this Braham’s fault. Getting his bow stolen, maybe, but shooting him with it was Bangar’s choice. Not Braham’s.

“Commander…” Even his voice sounded pathetically full of guilt.

“Braham.” Verne tried to sound livelier than he felt, clamping down on nausea and dizziness, that he knew came from neglecting his own needs for too long. 

He was still curled in the fur Rytlock had given him, and mindlessly grateful for the additional warmth it provided now. 

“A-about-”

Verne lightly shook his head, trying to avoid making himself dizzy again. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Braham looked even more like a scolded child now. “But... my bow…”

“Did you shoot the arrow?” Verne asked, too tired to care that he sounded on edge.

“No! I would never!”

“So if Rytlock takes up my sword and attacks you with it, is it my fault then?”

“No?” Braham sounded confused.

Verne sighed. “Then how is Bangar taking your bow and shooting me with it, your fault?”

“But-”

Verne held up a hand,  _ shut up, I'm tired, I want to sleep and forget what happened. _ He thought. But he couldn’t say that. He was the commander. He needed to be there for his people. 

“You look like…” Braham fumbled for the words, idly shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“A fern hound tried to take a bite out of me and decided it wasn’t tasty?” Verne provided for him. “I know.”

Braham heaved a short laugh, an ugly sound more like a scoff and a snort. “I didn’t want to put it like that.”

A strange silence settled over them, almost awkward, but not quite. Verne had never found it hard to speak to the others, and yet, the words eluded him. What did they ever really talk about anyway, when it wasn’t related to their next step in the great scheme of things? What else  _ was _ there to talk about?

There was thunder roaring in the distance, the crackling of the fire close by just barely masked it. It seemed that even the weather didn’t know what to do anymore.

“The storm is picking up.” Braham muttered. “Had to come back.” It almost sounded like an apology.

A smile tugged at Verne’s lips. “Look at you, being responsible.”

Braham lightly elbowed him in the side, making an active effort to avoid his sore side. Verne knew that if he truly wanted, the norn could have flung him across the room, and probably through the wall too. 

“Well and…” Braham opened his bag and dug around in it, Verne was almost sure he’d find wax paper from candy wrappers and crumbs of long stale bread in it, if he were to ever look into it. It was nice to have a young soul among all these cynic idiots sometimes. He loved them all but sometimes the company got too much.

He needed his space.

Only mildly interested in what Braham was looking for in his bag, Verne let his gaze wander across the hall. It really wasn’t a place to set up camp. It was cold, there was no space to rest, and while secluded and somewhat hidden, way too far away from whatever was happening up high in the mountains.

And most of the hall had no roof. There was that too.

“Ah there!” Braham ripped him out of his thoughts and promptly presented him a wrapped bundle of something. Neatly packaged too, definitely purchased from a merchant. 

“For me?” Verne frowned. 

“Uhm… They… they were discounted!” Braham tried to find an excuse.

Verne tried hard to clamp down on the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Today wasn’t a good day to be presented with gifts. He wasn’t in full control of his mind.

“Thank you?”

“Open iiiit” Braham grinned, giddy like a child. He almost sounded like Taimi now.

Verne couldn’t help but smile as he gently tugged loose the leather string of the cloth hiding whatever was inside. Once he peeled the fabric away, thick sheepskin gloves came to light, lined with wool, giving off the distinct scent of merchant shops. 

“Thanks.” Verne said again, frowning a little. Expensive and well-made gloves, but what for? He had a pair.

“...Well…” Braham nervously scratched the back of his neck. “You… mentioned you hate the cold that one time and- I remembered it when I saw these…”

Verne blinked. It was an offhand comment he had made when his boots had gotten soaked after wading through a shallow river. That the Norn even remembered it was almost impressive. 

“That’s very thoughtful.”

“And no one else can wear them anyway, except maybe Taimi- so... “

“Calling me short, eh?” Verne smirked, tension slowly easing away. He still felt tired and a headache coming on, but at least the gloom and fog in his mind were slowly chased away.

He tugged off the gloves he was wearing, idly set them aside and slipped on the new pair. The warmth almost immediately seeped into his half frozen fingers, eliciting a small sigh.  _ Comfort _ was something he hadn’t bothered with for a long time. Sleeping on floors, sometimes furs, sitting on the floor, now a dining table, eating whatever came his way, wearing whatever was good enough  _ and _ fit his short frame. 

He hadn’t spent much thought on indulging in anything. 

Resisting the urge to thank the Norn again he smiled. “They’re well-made, I hope you didn’t spend too much on them.”

Braham grinned. “I haggled a bit. Still think I got ripped off, but seeing you smile was worth it.”

“Haven’t been doing that a whole lot, huh.”

A grimace twisted the norn’s face. “We could all you some… good news.”

Verne sighed. “We will. But probably only after he won that next battle.”

Braham grimaced again, then shrugged and settled down on the floor. Verne would have liked to have good news for anyone. But there had been too much pain and sorrow lately, too little time for a break.

They had proven time and time again they would fight until they couldn’t anymore, no one would give up. And that was why Verne was confident that they would not let Jormag go without a decent fight. 

If they won that or not, that was the bigger question. One he had no answer for.


End file.
